


Who Are You?

by samulett



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternative Perspective, Angst, Mild Language, Other, Season/Series 06, Soulless Sam Winchester, outside perspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 03:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samulett/pseuds/samulett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean takes a step and a half toward Sam, pushing the personal space bubble to what Abby would consider bursting point in normal situations. But for some reason, this doesn't look or feel like normal situations.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Are You?

**Author's Note:**

> Wanted to try something from an outside perspective with these two. Set in Season 6. Enjoy!

 

Abby's sitting on the front step because her dad's football game is cranked about ten decibels higher than it needs to be. She's trying to read a book for school; a long, gritty, everything-that-could-possibly-go-wrong-goes-wrong paperback that's seen better days, which her English teacher _swears_ is fantastic and a great first novel for the class. The ground is covered in a thick layer of snow and she fears she might actually freeze solid in the biting wind. But she's buried her hands in some mittens, and wrapped a red, woollen scarf—the match to her red, woollen hat—around her throat and told herself to deal, because there's no way that she'll be able to focus inside. The earmuffs she's slapped over her ears should work to keep her both warm _and_ block out any sound that threatens to lower her grade-point average to a seventy.

But she finds herself constantly glancing up from the worn pages of the book to look at the incredibly shiny black car parked just across the street. It's definitely old; it's sleek form is something her dad would look at and drool over, not that she really understands why. It's _old_. But here, on this skinny street of apartments and compact houses, rusty trucks and cracked pavement, it looks so out of place. 

She catches sight of someone walking up the desolate street and cranes her neck to look at him. He's wearing a heavy coat, laid over a smart looking suit and a red, striped tie. His face, all sharp angles and bright eyes, is flushed from the cold, his nose a perfect red dot in the middle. Obviously, he isn't use to this kind of Minnesota weather. In his hands, he's carrying two coffee cups from which streams of steam rise and swirl in the wind. As he comes closer, Abby ducks her head and pretends to return to her book, but covertly looks up from under her fringe of brown hair to watch him.

As she finds herself expecting, he comes to a stop when he reaches the car, but instead of climbing into it, he leans his back against the passenger door and stares up at the front door of Abby's neighbour, Mrs. Calaway, like he's waiting for something. After a moment, he takes a sip from one of the cups.

She wonders what he could be waiting for. She knows that Mrs. Calaway's husband had died about a week ago; from a heart-attack, her mother had solemnly informed her. Maybe the man is a relative of hers, trying to buck up the nerve to go in and console her. It's obvious he's tense or nervous or something from the way he holds himself, with his shoulders so stiff and his breath clouding the air in what appear to be long, calming bursts. But maybe he's just cold. He takes his eyes away from the door to glance up and down the street, licking at his lips, before returning his gaze to the house. 

Maybe he's some sort of criminal, waiting for the perfect chance to sneak inside Mrs. Calaway's house. But that idea leaves Abby fleetingly. If he's a criminal, he's an awfully bad one. No criminal just stood outside his victim's house in the cold where he could easily be seen and easily stopped. That was just stupid. No criminal owned a clean, antique car or a suit either. At least, not any criminals she's heard of. 

Whatever he is, he just keeps standing there. He takes another drink from one of the coffee cups before setting it down on the roof of his car. He clutches the other one in two hands, keeping it warm, she guesses. Every now and then he shifts a little, maybe to switch the ankle he has crossed over the other one, but that's it. He just keeps waiting.

She contemplates the idea that he's waiting for a girl. Maybe Mrs. Calaway's daughter, who could be inside and could be about his age. Maybe he's her boyfriend and had felt uncomfortable about talking to his possible-mother-in-law's newly dead husband and so had opted to make a coffee run instead. That could make sense. 

When the door to the house opens, both Abby and the man jump. But it's not Mrs. Calaway's daughter that emerges. It's not even a woman. It's another man, tall, also dressed in a suit, who says some sort of pleasantry to Mrs. Calaway before the door closes again and he comes purposefully down the steps to the street. The man leaning against the car straightens quickly.

“So?” He asks, and—feeling a tad guilty—Abby pulls her earmuffs from her head so she can hear better.

“She said he died at home when she was out. She came home and found him on the bedroom floor with a crumpled piece of paper in his hand that read 'the end' on it. She called the ambulance, he got to the hospital, they said heart-attack. Just like it said in the report,” The tall man explains. The first man nods.

“She also mentioned that they had had some power trouble in the house earlier that day. Lights flickering, going out, a lot of crackling on the television,” The man made a gesture like something was obvious, “I'm guessing you're thinking what I am, Dean.”

 _Dean_. Abby tests the name in her head. It suited him somehow.

“Wouldn't be the first time someone decided to hang around and cause trouble,” _Dean_ says and glances up at the house. Abby's got no clue what it is they're talking about. “So, you thinking we should check out the archives on the house? There's probably some poor sonofabitch who bit the dust here.” 

“Yeah, exactly. Let's go,” The tall man says pointedly and makes a move to get between Dean and the car door handle, but Dean doesn't seem obliged to move.

“Well, hang-on, Sam. We could take a little break,” Dean says and shrugs his shoulders, which, by the way, are still looking tense from what Abby can tell. _Sam_ makes a face.

“We've almost got the case finished. Why stop now?” Sam asks, and leans his hip on the side of the car. His hands slip into his pockets. Dean turns a little to look him straight in the eye and Abby finds herself watching the profile of Dean's face carefully. He looks uncomfortable talking to this man, but it's strange somehow. From what she can tell, they know each other well. Just a minute ago, they basically read each other's minds. Dean takes a step and a half toward Sam, pushing the personal space bubble to what Abby would consider bursting point in normal situations. But for some reason, this doesn't look or feel like normal situations. 

“This ghost isn't gonna cause any trouble tonight. We should hit the bar, or check out the drive-in they've got on the other end of town,” Dean says, a sad sort of smile working at his lips. His eyes, Abby can tell, are almost pleading. Sam doesn't seem to notice, and snorts. 

“Dean, we've got a job to do,” Sam says. 

“That's all that's been on your mind ever since you got back. Ever since we got back together,” Dean says, a harshness that wasn't there before suddenly edging his voice.

Abby wonders where Sam has gotten back from and what this is about a ghost and what kind of _together_ the boys are back to. From the way Dean looks at Sam, though, she doesn't really need to think about it long. They remind her suddenly of the boys in her Algebra class, the ones that she and her friends always argue about. They're always closer and quieter with each other than they are with anyone else, spending all their time together and bumping shoulders in the hallway. She knows that they have something closer than friendship. And these two—this _Sam_ and this _Dean—_ have something similar but something different too. Something deeper and sadder and she finds herself wanting to edge forward, wanting to watch and listen and _know_ what they know. Why is Sam so distant? Why is Dean so anxious? 

“It's what we do. I'm just aiming for the right thing here. The thing that you always wanted me to,” Sam retorts, speaking through clenched teeth.

Dean doesn't say anything after that, but Abby can see his jaw working, his hands restlessly turning the coffee cup in his hands. He closes his eyes and tips his head down, slapping another fake smile on his face. He laughs this little disbelieving laugh and then eyes Sam again. Sam's face hasn't changed; he just watches Dean, calculatingly. 

“Just know that if there's anything—last year, hunting,” He pauses, eyes softening, “ _Hell_. Talk to me, man, I'm here. I'm all-ears. You know that, right, Sammy?”

 _Sammy_. The name sounds so affectionate, so _intimate_ , when it comes out of Dean's mouth that Abby almost wants to get up and leave the two in peace. 

“Yeah, I know,” Sam says almost dismissively and raises a hand to give Dean's shoulder a mockery of a reassuring squeeze, “Thanks, Dean. But I'm fine, really.” 

Dean just stares at him, mouth a tad open, eyes searching for _something_ in Sam's. 

“We should get this done so we can report back to Samuel,” Sam says after they stand there in silence for another moment. This seems to snap Dean out of his trance and he nods quickly, biting his lip.

“Alright, fine. But don't complain to me when we're trying to dig through ten fucking layers of frozen dirt for a pile of bones,” Dean sighs and stretches out his arm to Sam, offering up the coffee he's been keeping warm all this time. Sam gives it a single glance before waving it off, sliding past Dean and yanking open the passenger-side door to clamber inside.

Abby's heart, along with Dean's, sinks a little.

The door closes with a loud crack and Dean stands there for a moment, the coffee still in his hand, staring at the space that Sam had occupied a moment before. He licks his lips again, shaking his head, and then dumps the cup and it's contents into the garbage can by Mrs. Calaway's stairwell. He grabs his own cup from the roof of the car—now cold, Abby's sure, in this weather—and circles around to his own door. 

His eyes meet Abby's for a moment, and he stares at her, probably wondering if she's been there the whole time. Panicking on the inside, she offers a small smile, and he returns it, the corners of his eyes crinkling, one side of his mouth angling slightly higher than the other—a boyish, warm smile—before turning and slipping into the front seat of the car. With a rumble, the car comes to life, and rolls away, a small putter of smoke all that's left in it's wake.

Abby sits for a moment, watching it go, wondering where they'll end up and what the hell it is they'll do. The paperback lies still in her hands, her page lost in the breeze. She wishes that last smile could have been for Sam. She wishes Sam could have returned it.

 


End file.
